Not the Words I'd Use
by Mickidona
Summary: Rapist. Pervert. Pedophile. Words Arthur used to use far too often. But now he's starting to understand the true effect of such insults on Francis' pride. FrUk angsty fluff, a little PruAus in the middle. This fic is getting a massive extension, so stay tuned for more!
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

**AN**

_I should really be finishing my sick fic… but inspiration has yet to strike for the next chapter, so have some random FrUk fluff instead. Oh, wait, this one is unfinished too. Yeah, I hate me too _-_-

**/AN**

_Rapist. Pervert. Pedophile._

Words that Arthur used too often, I'm afraid. Yes, he was always ashamed of them, but using them always made that dumb frog shut up and leave him along. It had been a while though, he mused, since he had used such insults. And even then, it was only when he was really, truly drunk. This, admittedly, was a lot more often than he'd care to divulge.

As much as he hated the egotistical Frenchman, he knew the accusations, however numerous, were completely and utterly false. "Love is not something that you can force upon someone," he always said. And the Brit believed him. For as irritating as the constant flirting was, Francis never crossed the line. He _always_ stepped away before going too far.

And yet everyone always expected that of him, always waited for him to go too far, so that they could be the one to call him out on it. Arthur shrugged. _People always expect the worst_, he told himself, _nothing I can do about it_. He glanced over at the Frenchman, so elegantly draped across an armchair in front of the fire, roaring brightly even this early in the day. Before he could stop and think, he found himself talking.

"Hey, Francis?"

The handsome blonde looked up, grinning cockily.

"Yes, Angleterre?" he teased. "Something you have to say?"

To his horror, Arthur felt himself blushing deeply.

"Don't look at me like that!" the Brit angrily chastised him. "Besides, I only wanted to ask if you'd show me around Paris, it's been years since I've been. But you obviously don't want to, so-"

Francis' bright blue eyes lit up like a child's on Christmas morning, and he cut off Arthur with enthusiasm.

"Show you around the City of Love? But of course!" The Frenchman pressed a long fingered hand to his heart. "It would be my honour."

"Bloody frog, always so dramatic…" muttered the Englishman, although he was secretly pleased. God forbid Francis ever rejected an invitation; Arthur would probably die from embarrassment.

"Alright, we'll leave straight after breakfast then."

"I look forward to it, mon chere."

**AN**

_Short chapter is short. I have more written, but it's in a book. I'll go type it up now. Maybe. Stay tuned for more =^-^=_

**/AN**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

**AN**

_I feel like this is going to turn into a proper fanfiction, when I really intended it to be just a few chapters. Oh well. I've upped the rating due to a few choice words in this chapter. I know I'm not the only one who has been called these things, and I sincerely apologise for bringing up any bad memories._

**/AN**

After a hearty English breakfast of sausages, eggs and toast - all cooked by Francis, of course, save for the toast, which was treated to death by flame - the two men moved to their respective bedrooms to dress.

Arthur slipped on his favourite tweed suit jacket over a crisp white shirt, straightening the mud-coloured waist coat and matching bowtie. After checking his reflection in the looking glass inside the wardrobe door, he marched out into the hallway, leant against the wall, and waited for Francis to finish getting ready.

Half an hour later, the handsome Frenchman stepped out of his room, impeccably groomed, and finally ready to go. Upon seeing him, Arthur's mouth dropped open. The Frenchman was wearing a surprisingly modest mauve suit, complete with ruffled shirt and velvet bowtie.

"Struck dumb by my beauty, I see?" chuckled the ever confident man.

"I don't think I've ever seen you with so many buttons done up," retorted the Brit, smirking at Francis.

"Well I wouldn't want to outshine you completely, mon chere!"

Arthur playfully punched the grinning man on the shoulder, eliciting a mock horror gasp. Chuckling at the over-dramatic Frenchman, Arthur moved to open the door, stepping out into the crisp, autumn air of Paris.

Two hours later, an elated Francis pulled a laughing Arthur into yet another bar. Usually, when the Brit drank, he became a total mess, blubbering and carrying on like a child. Yet something about Paris, the twinkling lights and happy faces, and the presence of Francis, it made his heart feel fuller than it had in a long time.

The atmosphere in this bar was a little different, a little rougher than the last five… or was it six? But the intoxicated pair brushed it off like crumbs from a rich man's table, swinging their alcohol laden bodies into the plastic barstools and ordering a round of beer.

Glancing around the bar, Arthur spotted a few people he vaguely knew; Ludwig, a strapping German man, was sitting with his head in his hands as his best friend, Feliciano, a tiny Italian full of energy, attempted to spear a cocktail olive with a toothpick, failing miserably. A beautiful Hungarian woman, whose name he thought was Eliza, or perhaps Betty, was chatting up a blank faced Swiss man, who appeared to be completely oblivious to her advances. Most notable, however, was the scene occurring in the very corner of the room, shoddily hidden behind a plastic palm tree.

"Hey, Francis," Arthur poked the man's arm sharply, getting the Frenchman to turn to him. "Isn't that Gilbert over there?" He pointed towards the plastic tree.

"You know, I think it is!" A smirk grew on Francis' handsome face.

"Isn't he snogging Roderich?"

"I think so! Guess he finally made a move, good for him."

Sure enough, the albino had the chocolate haired pianist pressed up against the wall, and was making out with him quite enthusiastically, hands wandering to places they probably shouldn't be; at least, not in public. Surprisingly, Roderich was making no move to push him away. Arthur chuckled, wondering just how many beers Gil had poured into the aristocrat to get him to allow such inelegant behaviour. The Brit glanced sideways at Francis, suddenly frowning slightly.

"Yeah… good for him…"

Before the Frenchman could question Arthur's unusual mood swing, a disturbance in the steamy corner drew not only their attention, but the gazes of everyone in the bar.

"Oi! What the f*ck do you two f*gs think you're doing?" A burly ginger man had shoved Gilbert away from Roderich, causing the albino to stumble to the ground. Before he could reply, Roderich stepped forward, surprising everyone.

"We were doing exactly the same thing that you were doing to the lovely blonde over there," the brunette said smartly, pointing to a skimpily dressed woman across the room, whose lipstick was indeed smudged.

"Don't compare that, that _sin_ to anything that I'd ever do, you f*cking queer!" The man raised a hand to shove the musician, causing Gilbert to jump up and knock his arm away.

"I happen to be in love with this 'f*cking queer,' you dickhead, which is more than I can say about you and little Miss Hooker over there!" The albino retorted, clasping Roderich's hand protectively.

"I should do something about this…" muttered Francis, sliding off his barstool.

"Just… be careful, okay?" The Brit warned.

"Am I every anything but?" the handsome blonde grinned back cockily, before striding over to the corner of the room, chuckling heartily.

"Ah, what have we here? Just a little disturbance, I'm sure. Now, how about we all shake hands and go our separate ways, oui? Wouldn't want anyone to get hurt, now would we, Gilbert?" The Frenchman said to the albino, looking pointedly at the delicate pianist.

"Uh, yeah, good idea Francis… might skip the handshake though," Gilbert mouthed a thank you to the Frenchman, before pulling Roderich out of the bar, and out of harm's way. Francis turned back to the redhead, ready to placate the man, only to find himself the new victim.

"I know _exactly_ who you are! Francis Bonnefoy, the sl*t of France!"

Arthur, who was still watching from the bar, saw Francis' friendly smile falter, as the ginger man continued to verbally assault the Frenchman.

"I'll bet the only reason you helped out those gay freaks was so you could join in, am I right? Just another fling, eh? How much do they pay you after it, huh? Or do you just f*ck 'em 'till they can't stand, then leave 'em in the ally?" The redhead had successfully stunned Francis into silence, so he started tossing insult after insult carelessly at the blonde.

"Sl*t!"

Arthur slid off the barstool, stumbling a little as he walked across the room to assist his friend.

"Wh*re!"

Francis' shoulders slumped forward slightly, not even attempting to stop the man, tell him he was wrong.

"F*ggot!"

Arthur quickened his steps, sensing the blonde's helplessness.

"Pervert!"

The Brit faltered. Hearing the word he'd uttered so often from someone who truly meant it? It felt horrible.

"Rapist!"

Francis gasped, a quick intake of breath, and he mumbled something unintelligible to his aggressor.

"You tryna say something, paedophile? Speak up!"

"I am _not_ a rapist… or a paedophile, for that matter."

Arthur heard the dejection in his friend's soft voice, and he hurried across the room to get him the hell out of there.

"Yeah you are, don't try to deny it! You're proud of it, aren't you? I bet your daddy showed you exactly what to do. Only reason he kept your mum around probably. And Jeanne, she was good practice, wasn't she?"

Francis' breath caught in his throat at the mention of Jeanne. His mouth moved soundlessly, before he crumpled to the ground, his gently curling hair falling across his face, and he began to sob hopelessly.

"That's what I thought. F*cking rapist…" the redhead sneered down at the broken man, his job finished, and stalked off.

Arthur crouched down in front of the weeping blonde, patting his back awkwardly.

"Uh, Francis? Are you okay?" No response. "You know that was just a pile of bollocks, right? You'd never do something like that…especially not to Jeanne." Still nothing. "Come on, I'll take you home."

The Brit helped Francis to his feet, half carrying the desolate man out of the now silent bar, and settled him on a bench, before calling for a taxi. He couldn't remember where they'd left the car, and besides, neither of them should really be driving at that point.

And so the two men sat in silence, waiting for the taxi. And when the taxi arrived, further silence. Arthur was sure that even more silence awaited them back at Francis' home, but he didn't really mind. Constantly glancing over at the Frenchman, he kept trying to start a conversation, but could never find the right words. What do you say to someone who has been accused of such things? And so the silence continued.

**AN**

_I feel like this chapter ended kinda lame... all that angst was hard to follow. It was hard to write too, but the story called for it. The insults were pretty bad too, sorry about that. So yeah, not too happy with this chapter -_- I'll make up for it in the next with some fluff. Please review =^-^=_

**/AN**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"Francis?"

They had been home for over half an hour now, and nothing the Brit had done could elicit a response from the Frenchman. He just sat there, silent tears streaming down his face, as Arthur tried to coax him out of his reverie. Cups of tea, jammy dodgers, and a pitiful attempt at toast, all lay rejected across the table. Arthur sighed. It was time for some action.

"Look, Francis… I know that wanker said some pretty harsh things, but he was wrong. Anyone can spout bollocks like that; it doesn't mean they're right. Even I know you don't do that stuff, and you know how bloody ignorant I can be."

"Jeanne." The handsome blonde barely spoke above a whisper.

"I don't know what I can tell you," Arthur said, throwing his hands up.  
"I mean, I'm sorry she's gone, but… isn't it time to move on? You're not the only one who's lost someone they loved."

"I didn't do those things." Francis spoke like a child.

"I know. That's what I said, isn't it? Just because some total bludger down at the bar reckons you did, doesn't mean it's true."

"You believe me?" Fresh tears began to fall from the sapphire eyes.

"Of course I believe you! That's what I've been saying the whole bloody time, you idiot! Why don't you listen to me?"

Arthur sighed, plonked himself down on the couch, and wrapped an arm around Francis. The Frenchman leaned gently on him, glad for the support. Arthur leaned his head against his blonde, silky hair, squeezing Francis gently.

"You're okay, aren't you? I mean, they're just words. We've gone through a whole lot worse that just words."

"Words hurt, Angleterre. More than simple wounds."

"Well that's what I'm here for, isn't it? I may not be a lot of help with your real wounds; in fact I probably caused most of them. But I can sit, and listen, and give terrible advice, which you will immediately ignore."

Francis chuckled gently, sitting up to face the Brit.

"Your advice isn't _that_ bad, mon chere."

"Don't lie to me, frog." Arthur shoved Francis' arm playfully, and before they knew it, they were jostling each other back and forth, laughter cutting through the once tense atmosphere. A particularly hard shove from Arthur caused the Frenchman to topple backwards, falling towards the ground. He reached out, grabbing the Brit's collar in an attempt to steady himself, only succeeding in pulling them both down.

Francis lay on his back, golden curls gently fanning out across the navy carpet, Arthur's hands on either side of his shoulders. The sandy haired man froze, realising that her was basically straddling the Frenchman, before they both burst into laughter again.

"You bloody idiot, what did you do that for?"

"You pushed me first, mon chere, I simply retaliated!"

"Stupid frog," chuckled Arthur as he rolled to the side, getting off Francis. "Er, sorry about landing on you though."

"Ah, but I did not mind at all! In fact, if you would like to do it again-"

"Argh! Shut up, you wanker!" Arthur turned an interesting shade of magenta as he processed Francis' words.

"I kid, I kid. Well, I don't really, but it was worth a shot, oui?"

"It wasn't worth anything, and you know it!"

Francis just sat there, grinning cockily at the infuriated Englishman. Well, at least he wasn't sobbing his heart out anymore.

"It would be fun though, oui? Well, it would be fun for you. I cannot say much for your… skills, shall we say-"

"Are you trying to say that I'm a bad kisser!?" Arthur's mouth was hanging open, aghast at the accusation. "How the bloody hell would you even know?"

"Ah, it is instinct, mon chere! I can tell at a glance," chuckled the Frenchman, amused at the offended look on the Brit's face.

"Oh please, I could snog you into next week and you know it!"

"And what makes you say that, Angleterre? How do you know if I even find you attractive?" The cocked eyebrow that Francis gave made something in the Brit's brain click; he'd show that frog something real special.

"Maybe not now…" Arthur smirked. "But you will."

And with that, he jumped up of the floor and hurried towards his bedroom, leaving a perplexed Francis to pull himself onto the couch and wonder what on earth Arthur was planning. He could hear the Brit bustling around in his room, then footsteps coming back down the hall, pausing before entering the room.

"Oi, frog, close your eyes!"

Francis chuckled softly, closing his eyes. He heard Arthur moving across the carpet, and a curious click-thud noise, almost like… an amplifier? What the hell was he up to?

"Angleterre? What are y-" He was cut off by an ear-splitting guitar riff, causing his eyes to snap open.

"Mon dieu…"

Arthur was standing there, a black and red Slayer emblazoned with the British flag free-hanging in his arms. A pair of smokey grey skinny jeans, carelessly ripped not only at the knees but scandalously high up his thighs, accentuated his long legs, while his feet were clad in matte black platform boots that reached halfway up his calves, the deep purple laces crossing over and over before falling casually to the ground, left sloppily untied by the British punk.

His simple white dress shirt, now uncovered by the atrocious suit jacket, was torn off at the sleeves to reveal milky white, slender arms, while a bandana emblazoned with the British flag - how typical of Arthur - was tied messily around his neck. Smirking at Francis, the Brit stood cockily, his legs further than shoulder width apart, and raised an eyebrow in question.

"Arthur? I… wow," the Frenchman chuckled. "This is certainly not what I was expecting."

"But you like what you see, don't you." It was not a question.

"My, someone is confident today!" Almost, but not quite, against his will, Francis allowed his eyes to travel down Arthur's slender form, before trailing back up to look him in the eyes. "Oui, I do."

"I see." He opened his mouth, as if to say more, then shrugged, slung his guitar over his shoulders, and carefully replaced it on its stand. "Mission accomplished, then."

"Something the matter, Angleterre? Were you, perhaps, expecting me to swoon at your feet and throw roses?"

"Don't be ridiculous, frog!" The easily angered Brit was all ready to get fired up again, but Francis simply grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled him down onto the couch.

"I will save that for next time, oui?"

"You can save it for never, you dammed Frenchie…" grumbled Arthur, folding his arms and pouting childishly. "Will you never let off on that?"

"Non, never," sighed the blonde, shifting his position to lean against the Brit. Surprisingly, Arthur made no move to push him off, instead threading his long, slender fingers through Francis' golden hair.

"Are you okay now?"

"Oui… I think so," Francis smiled sadly, looking up at Arthur. It was odd to see him like this, so fragile and emotional. "It seems you do care after all, Angleterre."

"Of course I bloody care, you idiot!" The Brit couldn't help but laugh, wrapping a slender arm around Francis' chest. "I don't like it, that's for sure. But for some strange reason," he sighed, "I care about you."

Francis blinked slowly, not expecting that reaction. "I care about you too, Arthur." It seemed like the appropriate response, and after all, he did care about the stuffy Englishman. He leaned up, placing a gentle kiss upon Arthur's cheek, grinning at the red haze that covered the pale face.

"Oh come now, you can do better than that," Arthur teased, although his blush was still quite apparent on his face. Damn his emotions, damn them all to hell! Another raised eyebrow from Francis, and all caution was simply thrown to the wind. Screw it all, he was the United bloody Kingdom and he would do what he wanted. And so he did.

When their lips finally parted, Arthur's hand lingered at the back of Francis' silky golden hair, his long fingers threading through it gently. How on earth did he get it so soft?

"I've been wanting to do that for rather a long time, you know." The Frenchman smiled softly, leaning back against Arthur. "I am glad that you made the move."

"Yes, well someone had to do it, might as well have been me," the Brit said quickly, trying to cover his embarrassment. What had possessed him to snog Francis, of all the things to do? Not that he hadn't enjoyed it, quite the opposite in fact. And he rather agreed with Francis; if he hadn't made that move, he suspected neither of them ever would. "Look what you've done to me, you fool, I feel like a bloody schoolgirl!"

"My schoolgirl," mused Francis, slipping his hand into Arthur's. "Although I much prefer my punk. He is very good looking, oui?"

"Of course he is, he's me!" There was that dammed blush again, he just couldn't seem to control his blood supply today; but he noticed that Francis too had a pink tinge across his cheeks. Perhaps they were both that hopeless, if you really looked into it.

"And I hope that you never change, mon chere. I love you just the way you are."

"Love? Who said anything about love?!"

"I did, lapin! It has been over two hundred years, no? I think that constitutes love."

"You always were so straight forward…" Arthur glanced nervously down at Francis, not wanting to hurt his already tender heart. "I don't know if I love you, Francis. Not yet, at least… I have trouble with my feelings, you know that."

"Then I will wait," came the simple reply. "I will wait forever, until the day that you can wake up and honestly say that you love me, as I love you."

Arthur sighed, wrapping his arms protectively around the French nation, resting his chin gently on the fair head. While the words were poetic, he didn't know how long the poor man would have to wait.

"Speak to me, Angleterre… I like the sound of your voice."

"That's a rather odd thing to say," chuckled the Brit. "What should I talk about?"

"Talk about me. I want to know how you see me."

"Alright then," Arthur considered for a moment, before deciding that the truth would be best. "You are insufferable. You interrupt me when I speak, you make lovey dovey faces at me all the time, and you interfere where you are not wanted. You are annoying, flirty, and have absolutely no sense of personal space…" He stopped for a breath, trying to ignore the tensed body lying across him. "And yet, somehow, you manage to be caring and sweet and kind to everyone, no matter how much they shoot you down. You're even kind to me, which is an accomplishment worthy of a medal. So, all in all… I suppose I'm rather fond of you. I just have a funny way of showing it. In essence, you are you. And I don't want that to change."

Silence. Arthur looked down at Francis' bowed head, a puddle of worry spreading through his stomach. He'd done it now, hadn't he? Right when the Frenchman was so fragile, he just _had_ to go and tell him what he really thought… it wasn't all bad though, was it?

"Oh god, Francis, I'm sorry… I didn't mean half of that, I just let my mouth run away from me as usual, I just-"

"Thank you," interrupted the blonde. "You told me what you truly think… and that means everything to me."

"Oh… right then." He really was hopeless. The usually confident, outspoken Brit had absolutely no words left. Yet he didn't need words, when Francis was right there, as if for Arthur, and Arthur only. Long, bony fingers intertwined with soft, feminine ones, conveying the words that neither of them felt the need to speak.

Did they love each other? Of course they did. That would be apparent to any watching spirit, whether it was a stranger or close friend. No matter how Arthur tried to deny it, the fact was there; he loved that idiotic Frenchie, and there was nothing he could do about it.

The shared moment turned into hours, the emotionally drained Frenchman slowly drifting off to sleep in the protective embrace of the equally exhausted Brit. Discovered, hours later, by a frantic Alfred, worried over the lack of attention given to the pair's phones. Hurriedly shushed by a more perceptive Matthew, who pointed out their obvious need for privacy, the Canadian wrapped one of Arthur's crocheted blankets affectionately around the sleeping couple.

"Took their time, didn't they?" Alfred just barely managed to keep his voice below a shout.

"Papa will be so happy now," smiled the Canadian. He knew how long Francis had been waiting for this, and had long suspected Arthur reciprocated those feelings.

"Yeah, if you say so..."

"Come on, let's leave them alone," Matthew frowned at his brother, gently pulling him away from the couch. What was up with him?

A sneaky snapshot later (perhaps three or four), the brothers slipped back out of the house, leaving the lovebirds to wake up on their own.

**AN**

_I feel like this chapter is kinda sucky… sorry. It'll get a bit more interesting later on, hopefully. This is turning out a lot longer than I originally intended, and I might throw in a few other pairings… any suggestions? Anyways, thanks for reading, please review! =^-^=_

**/AN**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

**AN**

_Hey look, an update! That hasn't happened for a while. To tell the truth, this chapter has been in progress pretty much since I posted the last one, but I've just had so little time to actually finish it. School is driving me up the wall! _

_I do, however, have some very short letters that are written from the perspective of France, to various other countries. I wrote them for my France roleplay Instagram page, literally in the car on the way to school. Would you guys like to see them? They're fairly good, if I do say so myself. Which I do._

_MOVING ONTO THIS STORY!_

_I had requests for GerIta, Itacest, AmeCan, PruCan, and RusCan for this… god, what am I going to do? GerIta I can most definitely slot in somewhere, but I might end up with a love quadrangle around Canada… lovely. I'll do what I can! I'll probably bring the PruAus back as well, cos it kinda started the whole 'debacle'. SO MANY SHIPS OMG. You guys are lucky I'm a multishipper…_

_This is really starting to turn into a full-blown fanfic, when it was only really meant to be one or two chapters. I have so many plans for it, so if you have any more requests, just let me know! Even if it's something as simple as a hug, I'll be sure to pop it in somewhere. Thanks for reviewing, I really appreciate it :D_

**/AN**

They remained in their loving embrace until deep into the twilight, where the light-sleeping Brit jolted awake. A confused glance towards Francis, memories of the previous day flooding back, and a rare, blissful smile filled his features. It may not be the perfect relationship; there would most certainly be bumps along the way, perhaps even breaks. But it was good for him, good for both of them.

It was something they both needed, and, for some strange reason, he knew Francis deserved it. Hell, he deserved it too, didn't he? For putting up with the insufferable frog for all these years, for somehow managing not to throttle him half the time, and for keeping those ridiculous feelings supressed for this long. Although, in hindsight, it may have been better to let them out sooner, he could not wish for a more perfect outcome than this. For his love to be right there, sleeping so peacefully in his arms, he felt simultaneously like the world was watching, and that they were solitary on this crowded earth.

A chaste kiss to the blonde crown, and Arthur lay back again, shifting ever so slightly under Francis' slender form. Trust his feet to betray him, sending a numbing river up and down his legs.

"Oi, Francis, wake up," he hissed, prodding the man gently between the shoulder blades. A mumbled response, a slight change in position; perhaps the Frenchman was not a morning person. "My feet are asleep, you git, get off me!"

"Angl'terre?" Francis moaned, rubbing his eyes sleepily. Probably not a morning person. "I don't wanna." _Definitely_ not a morning person.

"Well that's just too bad for you," smirked Arthur, shoving the slender blonde off his lap and onto the soft carpet. He stretched his long legs luxuriously, yawning into the back of his hand.

"You 'orrible person…" Francis simply lay back on the rug, squeezing his eyes shut, and not bothering to pronounce his words properly.

"Come on, get up, you twat… what's this doing here?" He lifted the old blanket by its corner, sharp eyes spotting a slight mistake in the crochet. "I made this years ago, dear god, it's dreadful."

"I see nothing wrong with it, Arthur…" yawned Francis, not bothering to look up. "Did you fetch it when we got here?"

"No, I didn't…" frowned the Brit. "Who on earth would come into my house and put a blanket, of all things, over us?" A sudden realisation came over the pair.

"Alfred."

The simultaneous realisation had a clearly different effect on the two men. Arthur simply chuckled, imagining Alfred bursting in through the door, all ready to demand ice-cream or coffee or some other weird American, only to find him and Francis curled up together on the couch. He could only imagine the look on the boy's face; confusion, shock, a little horror, perhaps. Francis, however, saw the true weight of the situation.

"You ought to call him… talk to him about this, oui?"

"Whatever for?" Arthur questioned, a fleeting smile still remaining on his lips. "He's never expressed any interest in my personal life before."

"It may be a sensitive topic for him, you being in a relationship." Francis trod carefully around the question; no point in scaring Arthur off.

"What? Why?" The expansive brow furrowed in confusion. "I don't see why it would concern him."

"He tends to get… jealous," Francis squeezed Arthur's hand gently. "Sometimes he feels like you are all he has, even when my Mathieu is right there. He won't be happy about losing you."

"Losing me?" The Brit scoffed. "He never had me in the first place! I had him, and then he left. There are no regrets in that child's head…"

"He does regret it, Arthur… but it had to be done. You know this. If he had never fought, he would have never grown up. And you are proud of things he has done, oui?"

"Of course I'm proud of him; I just wish he hadn't left!" Arthur was beginning to get grumpy. "I suppose it was for the best though…"

"Oui, it was," Francis assured him, patting his hand affectionately.

"I still don't see why he needs to know about this. Not that we should keep it a secret, that's ridiculous. But I think we should wait, at least until we sort ourselves out. And our bosses, they need to know too… blimey, this is a lot more complicated than I originally thought," Arthur groaned, rubbing his temples in a reflexive movement.

Francis only chuckled, nodding his head in agreement. A shared glance conveyed their shared opinion; this would be dealt with after coffee. Arthur pulled himself off the couch, muffling a yawn in the back of his free hand, but was pulled to a stop by Francis, who was still clutching the other.

"Come on, get up already, you lazy bastard!"

"Non," Francis moaned, dramatically throwing his head back. "I am too sleepy! You will have to bring me breakfast in bread. Or rather, breakfast on couch."

"I'll be damned if I ever bring _you_ breakfast of any kind! You will get up, and get up now, or you can make your own coffee," the Brit crossed his arms, sensing his triumph - the lazy Frenchman hated using coffee machines.

"Ugh, fine…" Francis rubbed his eyes, combed his fingers through his hair (eliciting an eye-roll from Arthur) and pulled himself, with great effort, off the couch. "I will cook though. I refuse to eat your food, Angleterre."

"Well, aren't you rude," Arthur childishly stuck his tongue out at the blonde, not having a good argument for his cooking. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with my food!"

"Then you will be fine without my cooking, oui?"

Knowing he was beat, Arthur simply turned on his heel and marched into the kitchen, followed by a softly chuckling Francis. Maybe they were good for each other after all.

"I would, however, like some tea, yet I am not the best with beverages. Perhaps you could?" Francis flashed the Brit a winning smile, knowing that the suggestion would placate him.

"Well, I suppose if you're cooking I'll have to do _something_…" Francis only continued to grin, so Arthur mock-slapped him on the shoulder and moved to fill up the kettle. "Be quiet, frog!"

"I did not say a word, Angleterre," chuckled the blonde, who was already whisking an egg into milk and honey. "You are happy with French toast, oui?"

"Cor, I haven't had French toast for years!" Arthur grinned, happy for once. "You'd cook that for me?"

"It is not very difficult, Arthur!" Francis chuckled, shaking his head. "It is not as though I am baking you a croquembouche." One look at Arthur's face, however, and he patted the slender hand gently. "Oui, I will make French toast, just for you."

"Don't patronize me!" Arthur's face was slowly turning red as he tried to keep his anger bottled in; something which took quite an effort.

"I was simply offering you breakfast, mon jour de pluie," the Frenchman chuckled, nudging Arthur's shoulder. "It is nothing to get all up in the air about."

"I- you- fine," the Brit clearly had more to say on the matter (he usually did), but chose to keep it to himself. Francis liked to think it was for his sake, but in all honesty, Arthur was probably just hungry. "Just make the bloody toast, will you?"

"French toast, chere! There is a difference."

Arthur only rolled his eyes, a welcome change from the usual fight that would have ensued. He moved to fill up the kettle, the pair falling into a comfortable silence. When your usual form of communication is argument, silence is truly golden. Francis could hear Arthur humming softly as he soaked the bread in milk, and he smiled, recognising the tune.

"I did not know that you liked Vera Lynn," he teased, glancing at Arthur over his shoulder.

"There are lots of things about me that you don't know, Francis. My music preferences are very… selective."

"Then I must learn more, oui? There was a time when I knew everything about you, Angleterre. I wish to be in such a time again."

"You do say the silliest things," muttered Arthur, but a light blush was tipping his ears. "But, I agree. I hardly know anything about you these days. To know more…" he turned his head to meet Francis' eyes. "I'd like that."

"Then all you need to know, I will tell you," the Frenchman murmured, slipping his arms around Arthur's waist from behind and settling his chin on the Brit's bony shoulder . The scene was so homely it was almost sickening.

"Do you have anything planned for the rest of the week?" Arthur hummed, leaning his head on Francis' as he set out the mugs, fussing over the way the handles were facing and the placement of tea bags next them. He had a tendency to become meticulous when nervous.

"Today is all free, mon amour, but tomorrow we are sleeping over at Alfred's chalet, oui?" Francis planted a chaste kiss on Arthur's cheek before moving back to his unfinished French toast, and began to warm a skillet on the gas stove.

"Ah yes, the sleepover," the Brit muttered darkly. "I still have nightmares from the last one."

"Mm, something about snogging Kiku and not regretting it?" Teased the older blonde, although a stab of jealousy struck his stomach. Perhaps they would abstain from truth or dare this time around.

"That is not how it happened and you know it!" Arthur spluttered, turning an interesting shade of purple. "It was a misunderstanding…"

"I know that, I was only teasing," laughed Francis, flicking a breadcrumb at him.

"Did you just throw bread at me?!" Arthur turned indignantly, holding up the crumb he'd plucked from his hair. "Rude little bastard," he griped, throwing it back and landing the speck of bread in Francis' own hair.

The scrupulous blonde gasped, a horrified hand flying up to his hair, his mouth falling open in horror. A pained look crossed his face as he pulled the lock of hair in front of cerulean eyes, inspecting it closely for any further crumbs. Finding it clean, thankfully, he dropped it (the stupid piece of hair fell perfectly into place, of course) and glared at Arthur, mouth scrunched up in annoyance at the comment.

"Says the man who is shorter than me."

"Oi, it's by less than an inch, you twat!"

"Don't call me a twat, tu petit merde!"

"Then don't call me a little shit, you wanker!"

"Shut up!"

"You shut up!"

"Only if you do first, rosbif!"

"Fine, maybe I will!"

"Will you?"

"Yes!"

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

The two finally shut up, sudden silence ringing through the air. Usually they'd keep yelling at each other until someone else came and broke it up (usually Ludwig), but they'd managed to stop all on their own, after only a few petty insults. Rather an accomplishment, in Arthur's mind. Perhaps this 'being together' thing was helping their relationship more than he'd expected.

But that didn't mean he would let up - oh no, he was quite happy to give Francis a good strong dose of the silent treatment. This time, he might actually receive an apology. Apologies were rare for the both of them, but it was in their best interests now, wasn't it? The Brit folded his arms and turned away from Francis - he'd have to wait and see.

"Arthur?"

He didn't reply, only pouted further and stared more harshly at the wall.

"Arthur, look at me."

The surly Brit still refused, turning his head so Francis was completely out of his line of sight.

"Je suis desolé, I did not mean to hurt you," the blonde murmured, reaching out a hand to touch Arthur's shoulder.

"I'm not hurt," replied the smaller (only slightly, mind you!) man, placing his hand over Francis' and smiling. "I said some horrid things too, I'm sorry."

"It is easily forgivable when it is you, mon amour," Francis grinned, sliding his arms around Arthur's shoulders and giving him a peck on the cheek.

"Sickly sweet nonsense," muttered the Brit, but he had to admit he enjoyed the attention - even if it was from his supposed enemy. "Shall we make breakfast properly now? I'm beginning to get properly hungry."

"Breakfast it is," laughed Francis, squeezing Arthur in a quick hug before turning back to the French toast.

**AN**

_Oh no. I am so sorry. I really am sorry! I haven't updated this fic for… how long now? *checks* Oh my gods it's been THREE MONTHS? Holy cheese, that's a lot longer than I intended. Well, in my defence, school has been extremely busy this term, especially with me failing chemistry and all ;-; Then, just as I was starting to get things under control, I caught influenza and missed a week! That was two weeks ago, and last week I had my midyear exams, but I missed the maths one because, of all things, I contracted sinusitis! It's been a rough few months, as you can see. On top of that, my anxiety and depression has been mounting and mounting and I've just gone a tiny bit insane… whoops._

_BUT I finally had the time to finish off this chapter, and the ending is kind of lame but I have a lot of plans for our favourite love birds. As per usual, any suggestions will be taken into account, but PLEASE NO MORE SHIPS WITH CANADA! I have like four already XD But any other ships will be gladly taken into consideration. So far I have;_

_FrUk (Of course)_

_PruAus (We've seen that already, I'll be adding more though)_

_RusCan (I was so glad to get this request, I love RusCan!)_

_AmeCan (Ehhhh I'll give it a shot but I also kinda want to do FACE)_

_PruCan (I'll figure something out for this, I'm sure… even though Prussia's already with Austria… heuahlfkajs)_

_GerIta (I don't really ship it, but I'll do it anyways)_

_Itacest (Probably not happening, sorry)_

_Turkey x Greece (I don't know how to write Turkey but I'll give it a shot?)_

_Giripan (Scratch that, I'm doing Giripan, I love that ship to bits)_

_ANYWAYS, thank you for reading, please leave a review, and have a nice day!_

**/AN**


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